Making 12.12.2013

I was barely a teenager when my mom taught me to sew. It was intimidating at first, deciphering patterns and holding tender fingertips so close to the machine's stabbing needle. But in time it became second nature; I could practically thread a bobbin in my sleep. Now, I often choose to sew by hand, favoring the hypnotizing monotony of pulling each stitch taut.

My grandmother taught me to knit, but my aunt taught me to purl. That first winter, I read the whole Harry Potter series while knitting, propping the open books against a coffee mug and turning the pages only when I finished a row. By the time I started Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire I had finally moved beyond a simple garter stitch.

I learned how to cook while spending weekends in Grafton with my high school best friend. We'd choose elaborate dishes from cookbooks and bring them to life in the kitchen of her family's 100-year old farmhouse. Her mother taught me how to eat fresh artichokes; one by one we plucked the leaves and scraped the flesh away with our teeth.

Last week I made dinner with a friend who was visiting from Omaha. She scrubbed potatoes as I chopped onions and tossed them into a sizzling pan. To be honest, it was awkward and bumbling at the start. There was tension between us, a lingering trace of resentment, heartache, and distrust from a decade-old rift. “I've missed you, you know” she finally said, as she tucked the pan of potato wedges into the oven and gingerly shut the door. “God, I've missed you too,” I agreed, pulling her into a tight hug. In that moment, I realized we were making so much more than dinner; we were making amends.

Bedtime 11.28.2013

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This is one chapter of a novel I'm writing, in its first-draft form. Enjoy!

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Ted slid a crisp twenty across the counter of the bodega and took a swig of stale, burnt coffee from a styrofoam cup. As the clerk pulled change from the register, his eyes drifted behind her, to a wall of cigarettes and batteries, falling longingly on a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Actually,” he said, “add a pack of those.”

As he stepped back onto the street and made his way towards Times Square, he balanced the coffee atop a newspaper kiosk and tapped the pack into his left hand. He had a cigarette in his mouth, hanging loosely from his lips, and was patting down his pockets in search of a lighter before he remembered he wasn't a smoker. Feeling confused and embarrassed, he pulled the stick from his mouth and carefully slid it back into the pack, then tucked the box into the pocket of his slacks.

Ted kept his hand on the box in his pocket as he walked, pondering what had just happened. Then, tossing his drained cup on top of an overflowing trash bin, he descended the stairs into the cold, damp subway.

After an exceptionally drab meeting, Ted crossed the street to Dot's Diner and slid into a booth across from Peter, a childhood best friend who shared the same love for Dot's cherry pie. Peter watched as Ted dragged a spoon through his black coffee, obviously distracted.

“Is something wrong?”, he finally asked.

“Huh?”, Ted asked, snapping back into reality. “Oh. I was just thinking about something strange that happened to me this morning.”

The waitress interrupted, setting their sandwiches in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Looks great. We're all set,” Peter said. As the waitress moved on to the next table, Peter turned his attention back to Ted. “So, what happened this morning?”

“It's silly.” Ted paused, staring out the window and squinting from the glare. “I've been having these dreams. Pretty much every night for a couple weeks now.”

“Nightmares?”

“No. They aren't nightmares. They're just weird. In my dreams, I'm smoking.”

Peter laughed, nearly choking on a potato chip. “I thought you were going to tell me something weird. You look so serious! So you're smoking in your dreams, so what?”

“The thing is, I've never smoked a day in my life. But in my dreams it feels so real.”

A strong breeze blew outside, shaking the window and sending a man's hat twirling through the wind, landing lightly on the sidewalk outside. “That's not the weirdest part,” Ted finally confessed. He reached into his pocket, fishing out the box, and sliding it across the table. “I bought these this morning.”

Peter flashed Ted a look of confusion. “But you don't smoke.”

“I know. But I'm telling you... these dreams are so real. This morning I forgot that they're just dreams. I bought them without even thinking.”

“Why are they open?”

Ted fidgeted in his seat and picked at his sandwich. “I had one in my mouth before I remembered.”

Peter laughed again. “What? You're shitting me.”

Ted lowered his head into his hands and let out a moan. “Work must be getting to me. They're just typical stress dreams, right? Maybe I just need a vacation.”

“Typical. Right.” Peter reluctantly agreed.

Gather 11.21.2013

Each year, around this time, I start gathering up my journals. Not just the ones from this year, but as many as I can find. My rule is to always, always be honest in my journals-- even when it hurts, even when I can't bear to be honest in real life. So these journals, they sometimes hold parallel realities: what I knew vs. what I lived.

My favorite journal was penned in 2009. It's red (the only non-black journal I've had in over a decade). I kept this journal when I was having daily panic attacks that left me incapacitated. It's filled with fear, sadness, and intense emotional and physical pain. A lot of the entries are bleak; I wrote a lot about not knowing if I'd ever overcome the panic attacks, wondering if it was all too much to deal with, wondering what the scarring would look like if I ever managed to heal.

That journal, though dark, depressing, and filled with pain and suffering, is such a testament to how much I (we) can endure, and how something better is waiting to emerge. That year is still teaching me lessons about how to be more honest, more open, more healthy, more happy. I'm a better person for it.

We're stronger than we think. 

Darkness 10.31.2013

When the darkness really sets in, walls thin, guards unattend, and vulnerability thrives. I like people most when they are unafraid of being tender.

As a creature who loves comfort above all else, I thrive in the coziness of night. I've made a ritual of reading in bed with a steaming mug of peppermint, sipping slowly, then shivering in the kitchen as I warm the kettle for a re-steep. I shiver, even in the summer.

In Washington Park, as the bold end-of-summer sun set behind you, I shivered too. The criss-crosses of chem-trails and the orange glow of dusk on your ears were jolting. It's the easily-missable details that get me, every damn time.

Later that night, I burrowed under the covers and pressed my face against your neck, unfazed by your sweat. “Turn the fan on?”, you whispered, as your thumb traced my collar bone.

By midnight you were snoring. I grinned as your chest rumbled beneath my cheek. The city moved outside the window above our heads and infused the room with fluorescent, allowing my eyes to collect the exact size and shape of your hand as it rested on your belly, the flutter of your eyelashes as you slipped into REM sleep, the subtle twitch of your right shoulder. Details and shivers. For once, I was thankful for light pollution.

Two 10.24.2013

1979

I was born on the first day of spring. In Plattsburgh, NY, though, it is only spring by definition.

1981

I was walking, talking, and asserting my independence with a voracious use of “no”. This is a phase I never grew out of.

1983

I went to preschool in the Philippines. After lunch, we all held hands and sang “It's a Small World” in a courtyard lined with banana trees.

1985

I learned to snap my fingers. My teacher taught me to lick them for maximum pop.

1987

By the time I was 8, my dad had re-married and I had gained a little sister. We spent the entire summer riding our bikes in the blistering Alabama heat and eating Otter Pops for lunch.

1989

Every Wednesday after school, I walked 5 blocks out of my way to lurk the library book sale. I never had money to buy, but my heart raced thinking about the smell of the musty stacks of Reader's Digests.

1991

A pregnant doe was hit by a car outside my house shortly before Thanksgiving. I never ate meat again.

1993

I fell in love for the first time with my neighbor's cousin. We almost kissed once... then the phone rang.

1995

Friendships, photography, and music. These are the reasons I survived high school.

1997

The night before graduation, as I headed out the door to a Converge show, my mom said “don't come home with a black eye!”. So, I came home with two.

1999

I spent the last months of the year preparing for the imminent apocalypse. I still have a sub-zero sleeping bag tucked away in my closet.

2001

My brother and I broke the lease on our Madison Ave apartment, gave away everything we owned, and hitchhiked south. I have never been more rich than those months when I had nothing.

2003

I volunteered as an escort at an abortion clinic, trying my best to create a sense of safety amidst the chaos of Bible Belt protesters. That same year, Paul Hill was executed in Florida for murdering a doctor at that clinic.

2005

When Pippi came into my life, I wasn't looking for a cat. So, naturally, we became inseparable.

2007

I skipped my high school reunion to eat pizza and watch movies in my underwear. No regrets.

2009

I let my guard down enough to fall in love with someone who lived on the other side of the country; a kind of love that was intoxicating and decadent. Then my heart got obliterated.

2011

Extreme workplace violence and a devastating hurricane tagged-teamed to punch my town in the gut. I used these tragedies as a catalyst to get the hell out of there.

2013

When this year began, I was overwhelmed with the fear of not having it all figured out. As this year ends, it's the only thing that comforts me.

Fences 10.10.2013

When I was a kid, I dug up a set of bones by a brambled chainlink fence behind our trailer. Disregarding the remnants of matted fur and collar tag that read DUTCHESS, I took them to my dad, sure that I had found a dinosaur. “Take them back,” he said, then held my hands under hot water and scrubbed them with Dial.


The bones went back, but I kept part of the ribcage. I liked the way the smooth edges felt against my palm.


When we moved to Vermont, the ribs went with me, tucked into the front pocket of my backpack.


It wasn't until later that year, as I scratched my cat's belly, that I realized what I had done. I slid poor Dutchess' ribs from a box beneath my bed, and carried them to a stone wall in the woods behind my house. There, I dug a hole and dropped them in. The ribs thudded against the dense soil, echoing off the trees and sending a shiver up my spine. I covered them, gingerly, with soil and pine needles and pulled a flat stones from the wall to place on top. There, Dutchess' ribs were laid to rest with an epitaph that read:

DUTCHESS

Born in Alabama

Ribs in Vermont

R.I.P.

Heart 10.03.2013

February wind beat against the windows and made the trees creak all around us, as we kicked off our boots at your parent's cabin. Inside, candles flickered and danced on the walls, goblets stood full of sparkling cider, and a fire roared red-hot in the woodstove. Your mom leaned over the counter to turn the dial on the radio, moving through the static from NPR to settle on an oldies station. Lifting a wooden spoon (smeared with mashed potatoes) to her mouth, she took her husband's hand and danced around the kitchen singing:


Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Rockin' robin, tweet, tweet, tweet
Rockin' robin' tweet, tweedle-lee-dee
Go rockin' robin
'cause we're really gonna rock tonight
Tweet, tweedle-lee-dee


We smiled at them from the doorway as we finished tucking our mittens and scarves into the arms of our jackets, then you grabbed me and danced us across the living room, complete with twirls. After all, we had reason to celebrate.


As the song ended, we migrated to the living room and piled tiny plates high with sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, seedy crackers, and crusty bread. “How long has it been?”, I asked.
Your dad lifted your mom's hand to his chest and grinned. “Twenty five years!”


Goblets were lifted and clanged as the family dog shifted with a groan on the rug beneath our feet. “Here's to twenty five more,” you said. And with that, the cider was drained. 

Harvest 09.26.2013

It was 8am when I peddled up your pebbly driveway and dropped my bicycle on the frosty lawn. You were leaning against the door frame, waiting for me, grinning and clutching two steaming mugs of coffee. “Only for you” I joked, as I wrapped my hands around a mug, feeling my fingers thaw one by one. You knew how I felt about mornings, so you made the coffee extra strong.

“C'mon,” you urged, pulling the door shut and waving me to follow, “I'll show you the orchard.”

Our boots crunched through the icy grass as we climbed a hill laced with hibernating blueberry bushes. Birds fluttered on the ground beneath them, unearthing the dregs of withered fruit.

A dozen rows of trees stood tall at the top of the hill, sparkling like diamonds as the frost loosened and dripped from their leaves. “Cortlands to the left, Macs to the right. And these,” you said, pulling a pink apple from a low hanging branch and shining it on your flannel, “are the Honey Crisps.” We each grabbed a stack of bushel baskets and started plucking.

We had nearly cleared the closest Honey Crisp tree before you spoke again. Hesitantly, you confided “Russ and I are having problems. I don't think we're going to make it.” The way your voice shook, I knew this was the first time you had dared to utter these truths out loud.

We spent the rest of the day with our backs against that tree on the edge of the orchard, guiltlessly eating our way through the two bushels we had managed to fill. The birds, who had followed us from the blueberry bushes, swooped to clean our discarded cores. Your crying turned to laughter, then to crying again, then to laughter, as you worked through all of the emotions you had held in for so long.

“Whatever happens, I think it's going to be okay,” you finally said as the sun started to sink. “I think I'm going to be okay.”

“I know you are.”

With that, I pulled you to your feet and kissed your cheek before starting to pick the ripest apples from the next tree.

That night, we tossed a few logs into the wood stove, curled up on the couch with our cold toes tucked under fleece blankets, and dug into one fresh apple pie with two forks. “Good harvest,” you said, grinning.

“Yea,” I agreed with a smirk. “Maybe tomorrow we can actually pick fruit.”

Industry 07.28.2013

When I was a kid, we woke up one morning to find our pet birds, Peat and Repeat, had been eaten alive by ants. Bones wiped clean. The tree outside the nearby window swarmed with them, a sight not uncommon in the Philippines, where we had been living. Even as a child, I understood that Peat and Repeat were gone because the ants had rallied for a common goal: dinner. Individually, they were small and relatively harmless; together they were fatal. I had nightmares about the ants creeping through my parent's window, and leaving a bed full of bones.

Two decades later, I lived in Florida: a state with a climate that is ripe for fire ants. In the mornings, I'd sit on my porch and watch them build mounds on the sidewalk as I pushed my hashbrowns through the dregs of ketchup on my plate. I'd watch as they gathered still-sticky popsicle sticks, overripe cherry tomatoes from the garden, and oozing dead beetles to pull into the center of the mound with industrious precision.

By mid-afternoon, without fail, the humidity would peak and the sky would open, washing away the mound, scattering tomato seeds and beetle legs across the sidewalk.

By nightfall, they had rallied together for a common goal: home. Individually, they were small; together they were unstoppable.

Kind of like us.

Take Cover 07.21.2013

We were hitchiking through Alabama when the storm hit. It came quick and hard; there were blue skies one moment, and torrential rain the next. We couldn't help but laugh as we ran through the streets to take cover at the library. We made ourselves at home in a corner and stacked our table high with local newspapers, short story collections, and graphic novels. We laid our socks on the vents to dry.

The lightning was still striking when the librarian whispered “I'm sorry, the library is closing.” We split a hotel room-- a luxury we didn't often afford ourselves, and took turns standing in the steamy shower to thaw. After months of bathing in gas station bathrooms, it felt decadent to lather and scrub. After a few showers, the water stopped turning black.

We kept our sleeping bags rolled up that night, and audibly gasped as we crawled into the pillow-top bed. Despite our excitement about the novelty of 100+ channels, we fell asleep within minutes and slept through the night without budging.

We awoke to the sun shining and nudging us out the door. We slung our packs over our shoulders, grabbed a few bagels from the free breakfast buffet, and made our way south towards the on-ramp, a little lighter (and a lot cleaner) than the day before. It was only a few moments before a green station wagon pulled over. The driver poked his head out the window and yelled “Where ya headed?”

“South,” I said, a little unsure of our final destination. “Anywhere south.”

Mo(u)rnings 07.14.2013

“It's for you,” Megan's mom said as she passed the phone to me over the breakfast table. The cord stretched and uncoiled, bouncing lightly off the stack of pancakes. My grandfather had been in the hospital for a week, unresponsive after a stroke-- a reality that didn't quite sink in until I heard my mom sobbing through the receiver.

“Is it grandpa?” I asked, sure of the answer.

“No,” she said, “It's George. He's been hit by a car. I'm coming to pick you up.”

I saw him right away when we pulled into the driveway, wrapped neatly in a paper bag, resting motionless on the picnic table. I had been crying since the phone call, but a new and overwhelming sadness choked me as I opened the car door.

“Don't open the bag,” my mom warned, “You don't want to see him like that.”

I did open the bag, but I didn't look. I slipped my hand inside and squeezed his paw. I held him to my chest and rocked him back and forth for an hour, in a way that's not so different from how I have rocked babies to sleep since. Later that night, I buried him in the garden, lacing the soil with wildflower seeds.

Penelope, George's mom, sat beside the door late into the night, waiting for him to return home. Even at 13-years old, my empathy was crippling, so I scooped her up and brought her to bed with me, crying for both her sadness and mine. I held her close and kissed her head, whispering “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry” into her ears until we both fell asleep.

A few weeks later, the wildflowers erupted into patches of fiery reds, yellows, and purples. We kept a vase of them, freshly cut, on the dining room table. In the late mornings, as the sun grew fierce and blistering, Penelope took to laying belly-up in the garden, as if she knew she could find him there. On breezy days, the daisies and coneflowers rocked back and forth, nudging, cradling, and purring her to sleep.

Communing 07.07.2013

It's not easy for me to get close to people. I have tons of friends (1,091 according to Facebook), but only a handful of people that I feel truly connected to. Whether I was simply born an introvert or moulded by a childhood of constant movement is up for debate. At the end of the day, the root doesn't matter as much as the fruit.

I don't remember how I met Amanda. Meeting people isn't so cut and dry when you live in a town that is so small that someone can scarcely sneeze without a collective “bless you”. I sold her vegetables at my job, she kept me caffeinated at hers, and eventually we ended up on her porch, sipping peppermint tea and watching Mount Wantastiquet sink deeper and deeper into the darkness.

Our friendship sprouted quickly out of a fertile compost of devastating breakups and de-railed plans, and thrived from a mutual desire to grow and move forward as better people. Her cat, Luna, wove between our legs and traversed the thin railing to headbutt the tomato plants as we shared stories from the past and sketched outlines for the future. It was on that rickety porch, with our ankles hanging over the train tracks, that our friendship ripened.

A few years later, I found myself wading through a particularly messy breakup with a live-in partner. Even before he left, the home felt vacant. Amanda called me from her new home in Chicago, and let me cry in her ear for an hour-- a release I desperately needed.

“Say the word and I'm there”, she offered.

“Yes, please,” I begged.

A few days later she was at my front door with a years worth of hugs, a handful of wild flowers, and an all-encompassing comfort that only a perennial friend can bring. We seeded, weeded, watered, and tended. Now it's time for the harvest, and it is nourishing.

Water's Edge 06.30.2013

I was standing on the edge of the Atlantic the first time I felt truly comfortable in my adult body. After hitchhiking 3,000 miles to get there, I stood at the water's edge, letting the grit lick my heals. The waves crashed around me, nudging me in.

And who am I to deny the ocean?

I stripped down to my underwear and dove in headfirst, scraping my knees against the seashells and relishing in the sting of salt water in my eyes.

I let the weightlessness take me and I floated to the surface, tethered by nothing.

Wonder 06.23.2013

The shortcut through the Winn Dixie parking lot took us past the dumpster which had sometimes bountied us with lightly bruised apples, recently expired cookies, and fresh cut flowers that were beautiful despite their droop. We had learned that it was always worth a peek.

I was kneeling on the ground, tying a knot in my sneaker, when you tenderly lifted the lid, breaking the 2am silence with a monstrous rusty creak. Your right arm extended to the sky, elbow locked, to hold up the heavy lid. 

“Anything good?” I called to you, as I stood up.

You turned to me with a smile so big that dimples pierced your cheeks-- dimples that were so rare, I forgot you had them. I remember thinking “Oh, this must be good.”

As I approached, you flung the top open with a clang, flooding the dumpster with fluorescent light. You grabbed my hand as we peered inside and watched me as I discovered the cause of your dimples: hundreds of loaves of Wonder Bread, stretching to every corner and at least elbow deep. “I can’t be sure,” you said, “but I think they go all the way down. I think it’s nothin’ but bread.”

We did what any self-respecting punks would do, and we crawled inside. Laying on a wheaty cloud, we traded stories about our grandparents, first loves, first bicycles, and favorite swimming holes. We reluctantly climbed out when we started to yawn, scared of falling asleep and waking up in a dump truck.

You still had dimples when we climbed into your bed. And in the morning we made toast.

Spring Swan Song: Y2K 06.16.2013

In 1999 I was several years into a habit of staying up late to listen to Art Bell’s voice echo through my AM radio. His show, which normally spanned a wild array of paranormal and conspiracy theory topics, was largely one-note that year. His guests were scientists, analysts, technologists, and psychics, who were all poked and prodded for their expert opinions and predictions about Y2K.

During the day I sold shoes for minimum wage-- a job that was better than it sounds-- but I lived for the nights, when the kettle was whistling on the stove of my closet-sized studio apartment. I called him most nights, as my tea steeped and I burrowed deeper and deeper under the blankets, privileging the long-distance phone calls over the heating bill.

We talked late into the night, often circling back to the state of the world, the end of civilization, and a potential technology-mandated return to simplicity. Over time, the fear of the unknown turned into excitement as we dreamed, awake and aloud, about what life would be like without computers. We fantasized about the world returning to its natural order and nature taking the opportunity to thrive unscathed.

As our dreams became lofty, so did our plans. Before we knew it we were buying camping gear, studying edible plants and working out the logistics of moving him to my small town in Vermont-- a location we deemed more apocalypse-friendly than where he was living in Indianapolis. On my days off, I hiked deep in the woods, searching for hospitable camp sites-- just in case-- and returned home long after my cheeks were ruddy from the cold.

The apocalypse, of course, never happened. The year 2000 rolled in with no glitches, no crashes, no simplicity. But as my new sub-zero sleeping bag sat coiled up in a corner of my closet, our friendship unfurled with the realization that if the world was going to burn, we wanted to stand on a mountain and watch the flames rise, together. The clocks, for us, had reset.

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This story is about my dear friend, Scott, who was recently diagnosed with stomach cancer. To support him while he's out of work for treatment, I'm selling one-line drawings of animals! To learn more about Scott, visit his blog. It's incredibly honest and insightful. Visit my blog, too, if you'd like to support this great cause and receive a one-line drawing of your animal friend! xo, andee

Evenings 06.09.2013

“It was a moth. And a man. At the same time.”
“That isn’t real,” you insisted.
“But the book is based on a true story. It says it is.”
“That isn’t real.”
“Still, it freaked me out. Walk me home?”
“Of course. But that isn’t real.”

You pedaled your bike home a little faster that night. The Mothman Prophecies, real or not, had gotten under your skin, just as it had gotten under mine.

We spent most evenings together during that scorching Pensacola summer. You’d bring a sack full of baguettes from the bakery dumpster near your house, I’d splurge on 49¢ Faygo (cola for me, grape for you) and we’d follow the train tracks over the bridge to a small beach that overlooked the bay. The water gently ebbed and flowed around our ankles as we laid in the sand, searching for the UFOs that were often spotted in the skies above neighboring Gulf Breeze.

That’s how we stumbled upon the meteor shower. 100 per hour, at the peak. There were no words to describe the magic of being on that secluded beach with stars falling all around us-- in the sky, but in the water too-- so we laid in silence that was broken only by the whistle of the train, as it rushed along the tracks above our heads.

The wind from the train whipped through the humidity and rustled the leaves of the bushes behind us, startling you. You hoped I wouldn’t notice, but when you turned your head to look at me I grinned and squeezed your hand a little harder.

“The Mothman isn’t real,” I teased. Still, that night, we walked home a little faster, stealing looks over our shoulders.

Roots 06.02.2013

When my dad was a kid, he lived in a house on the outskirts of town. His backyard was a stretch of rolling woods, veined with trails that he ran on as a teenager. His sneakers packed the dirt, skipped over roots and fallen branches, and carried him to the top, from where he could see the river in the fall, when the trees were bare.

Nearly 40 years later, I lived around the corner, and I felt magnetically drawn to those woods. I spent hours walking the trails and sitting on boulders, soaking up the spots of sun that danced through the canopy. Each season, I watched the landscape morph into something even more beautiful than it had previously been. The budding trees of spring, the lush moss of summer, the fiery yellow leaves of fall, the crusty and diamond-laced snow of winter-- they were all my favorites, depending.

One morning in the late fall, I pulled on my sneakers and ran to the top, skipping (and tripping) over the roots and fallen branches. The earth was soft and I sunk into it slightly as I rested my hands on my hips to catch my breath. Through the last of the season’s foliage, I watched a mist glide across the river.

A breeze sent chills up my sweaty spine, as I leaned against a maple, tangling my feet in its roots, grounding me with my own.

Fauna 05.26.2013

“Knock, knock”
“Who’s there?”
“Fauna”
“Fauna who?”
“Fauna you should ask, deer...”

She didn’t laugh because the joke was funny, she laughed because only a biologist would make such a joke. It barely even had a punchline.

They had lived in the city for over a decade, but his heart was in the forest. She never forgot that he traded redwoods for skyscrapers to be with her. Each day, he wandered the streets of Brooklyn, noticing every sprig of grass, every pigeon, all of the life that thrived against the odds. In the evening, he’d return home with dirt under his nails and caked into the lines of his palms. Not city grime, but real honest to goodness soil-- rich, dark, and earthy.

As he washed up for dinner, she watched him from behind, until her curiosity was too much to contain.

“How do you do it, Jack? How do you manage to find all that soil in the city?”

He peered into the mirror as he used a cloth to loosen the grime from the creases under his chin.

“I don’t,” he said finally, “It finds me.”

Flora 05.19.2013

Flora’s feet barely  touch the floor of the filthy south-bound bus. Despite her stature, she’s thick, strong-legged, full of piss and vinegar. Her flesh colored stockings sag and hang off her knees and ankles, full of runs, mended over and over with clear nail polish. Her grey and white striped dress, thin with wear, sits just above her knees, lined with careful, hand-hemmed, red stitches.

In her weathered, leathery hands she holds a photograph; it’s wrinkled, dog-eared, and loved. Dark hair hangs loose from her bun, falling wildly around her face, but beneath it she is beaming.

The girl sitting beside her is no older than seventeen. She’s wearing nonfunctional strappy shoes, freshly manicured nails and an attitude that says she couldn't possibly care less about anything or anyone. She's chewing gum and staring out the greasy window-- anything to avoid eye contact. She's trying to appear confident and mature, but she's insecure and scared and everyone knows it. The daily commuters can smell her vulnerability.

Flora rocks back and forth in her seat, clutching the photograph so tightly that her fingertips turn white. Finally, she turns to the girl and boldly holds out the photo exclaiming-- nearly screaming-- "This is my granddaughter! She was born last week! I'm going to see her!".

The girl looks uncomfortable for a moment, her face filled with hesitation and dread. With wide eyes, she scans the bus to make sure nobody is watching before she takes the photograph. Holding it up to the sunlight, she stares at it for a moment. All she sees is a wrinkled and hairless lump, wrapped in a yellow blanket.

Their eyes meet and Flora's are welled with tears. She is so filled with life and hope that she is shaking and grinning.

The girl looks at the photograph once more, and with a sincere and childishly innocent smile says

"She's beautiful".

GROWING 05.12.2013

I was sitting on the edge of the tub, watching him shave, when I fell in love with him. He tilted his head to glide the razor along his jawbone, and-- just like that-- I was smitten. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, I saw him in ten years, twenty, fifty. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be sitting on the edge of a tub watching him shave when we were old and saggy.

A few years later, I found myself lying in a tent, high up on a mountain in Utah. After a long day of driving in the desert sun, I was exhausted. Instead of sleeping, though, I listened to him breathe, deeply and steadily. Turning my head, I could barely see him in the diluted stream of moonlight, but his silhouette was lovely and familiar, even though I hadn’t seen him in months. I thought about all of the nights I had spent lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling in that same diluted moonlight, wondering what it would be like to have him all warm and breathing beside me. And there he was.

I had half-expected this adventure to be excruciating. I had worked hard to get over him, to move on and move forward, and I knew this would be a test. I was scared that maybe I hadn’t made as much progress as I thought-- that being friends with him was impossible, and that I wouldn’t discover that unfortunate fact until we were deep in the desert, with no way out. As he groaned in his sleep and rolled onto his side, tugging his sleeping bag up to his chin, I felt a wave of relief. In that moment, I could see how much I had grown, how much we had grown.

There he was, all warm and breathing beside me, and it felt good.